


sometimes life's okay

by flybbfly



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Consensual Violence, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-30 16:04:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10880229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flybbfly/pseuds/flybbfly
Summary: AU where Neil and Andrew didn't go to college together. Neil is on a new team on which he knows no one & is pissed he's not getting game time.Three loosely-connected vignettes about how he gets to know one new teammate in particular.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The tag system isn't really adequate for warnings, so here they are:  
> \- mentions of past self-harm  
> \- mentions of past abuse  
> \- violence (punching things and punching each other)  
> \- slightly aggressive guy in a bar  
> \- ableist language
> 
> If any of these are issues for you but you still want to read, please hit me up here or on [tumblr](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com) and I'll elaborate.
> 
> Title is from an old Modest Mouse song, "Float On"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the prompt that prompted this:  
> "Andreil x "was supper pissed and went to the gym/punched you" au . Thank you

There was a time when Neil was cautious.

He remembers it sometimes when he catches a whiff of someone else's cigarette smoke, or when a car drives too quickly past his apartment, or sometimes at the beach. Having eyes on the back of your head, looking in mirrors before turning corners, burner phones, hair dye, contact lenses, fake license plates, fake names.

That was a long time ago, though.

He hits the punching bag again, as hard as he can. Again. Harder. Again. Harder.

There's a part of him that hates exy. Or no, not exy—how much he cares about it. Everything would be easier if he just cared a little bit less. 

Again.

It's a new team, he tells himself, it's a new team and he hasn't gelled with the players much yet, and that's why he's gone four games without a second on the court. 

Again. So hard he can feel the reverberations up his arms. He should be wearing gloves instead of just tape. Again. He's going to hurt himself, and mostly he doesn't care. What does it matter, if he isn't playing? Again. What does he matter if he isn't playing?

He likes the give of the leather against his knuckles. He likes the way the punching bag moves, the way it sways like it can't handle another hit but then comes back to him and takes another. He knows his form is off—he's no boxer, but he lived with one in college—and he doesn't care. He just enjoys hitting, and feeling, until it's just him and his arms and his fists, like when exy used to be instinct and it could be just him and his stick on the court. He hits, and hits, and hits.

Someone taps his shoulder. Neil doesn't think—isn't cautious enough to, not anymore—just turns and punches.

The thing he hits is not a bag. For the tiniest moment, so short that Neil doesn't even have the chance to be ashamed of it, he enjoys the feel of skin, bone, and blood—in that order—against his knuckles. Then he's being shoved against a wall and starting goalie Andrew Minyard has a knife pressed against the underside of his jaw.

“What the fuck?” Andrew says. Neil thinks it's the first time Andrew Minyard has ever said a sentence in his direction. Like the rest of the team, he has no time for a rookie who can't even get a few minutes toward the end of a game they're already winning.

“Sorry,” Neil gasps. “Fuck, sorry, I didn't realize—are you okay? Let me see that—”

The skin on Andrew's cheekbone is bright red and split, blood trickling out of it. Neil lifts a hand, but Andrew casts a meaningful glance toward it and Neil drops it again.

“Where are those reflexes on the court?” Andrew says.

“Same place they're in now,” Neil says. “Not on the court.” 

Andrew stares at him for another long moment, then, apparently satisfied that Neil isn't going to try to knock him out, drops his arm and slips the knife into one of the armbands he's always wearing.

“Do you always have knives in those?” Neil says. “Even on the court? That can't be legal.”

“Are you worried my fuse is as short as yours?”

“I punched you accidentally and you pulled a knife on me, so. Yeah, I am.”

Andrew looks back at him, already-familiar bored expression on his face.

“So what's the deal?” Neil says. “The rumors are true? You're a psychopath?”

Andrew ignores him and walks over to the mirror to examine his injury. 

“I don't think so,” Neil says.

Andrew doesn't glance toward him.

“I think a psychopath would've just put that knife straight through my gut,” says Neil, who is very familiar with how people who want to hurt you look. Andrew doesn't look like he wants to hurt him. The knife was a reflex, and Neil should be used to seeing those from Andrew, one of the best shot-stoppers in the NEC East. 

Andrew makes eye contact with Neil in the mirror, and Neil notices a thin line of his own blood gleaming at him: Andrew actually cut him. “Coach wants to see you,” he says.

“And you were the messenger.”

“What's that line about messengers?”

“Don't shoot them?” Neil guesses.

“Or punch them, as it were.”

“I'm sorry,” Neil says. “Really.”

Andrew waves a hand dismissively. 

Neil goes to see Coach.

*

Another week passes.

No game time.

The punching bag he thinks of as his is taking serious abuse, but it holds up. It makes sense: they're not exactly a poor team. He hits the bag harder, like if he just gets it to split he'll—something.

“Josten.”

Neil turns: Andrew Minyard is leaning against the doorjamb, carrying two pairs of boxing gloves. He has also made the very smart decision to not sneak up on someone who is clearly very, very pissed off.

“You are going to bruise your knuckles,” Andrew says.

Neil holds up his wrapped hands. Around the tape, his knuckles are black and blue. “Too late. Not that it matters.”

“Whininess is not attractive.”

“Who says I'm trying to be attractive?”

Andrew ignores him, but he comes closer, hands Neil one pair of gloves and straps on the other, then squares himself and waits.

“What?” Neil says. 

“You seemed to enjoy it so much last time.”

“You want me to hit you?”

“I want you to try to hit me.” Andrew tilts his head to the side, an obvious challenge.

“Okay,” Neil says. “Why?”

“Call it hazing,” Andrew says, but Neil knows better: Andrew didn't have a good practice for once; some drama with a cop or something had him off his game. Andrew is here for the same reason Neil is—hitting something helps.

And Neil doesn't need another invitation. He lunges at Andrew, but he finds all of his hooks and punches parried and blocked, and then finds that Andrew is perfectly willing to hit him back. He bobs and ducks out of the way, evading Andrew. Andrew doesn't get visibly irritated, but it shows in the set of his jaw anyway, a shift that makes Neil smirk and move faster, out of Andrew's reach and then back in it for a quick jab. When Andrew's hits land, they are merciless, hard enough to bruise, so Neil doesn't pull his punches either.

It goes on like that until both of them are out of breath and sweating, and then Andrew lands a hit strong enough to knock Neil onto his ass and drops onto the floor next to him.

“Feeling better?” Neil says.

Andrew flicks him a bored look. “Are you?”

“Yeah,” Neil says. “Kind of.”

He pushes off the floor and holds out a hand. Andrew takes it, hauls himself up, and immediately lets go to head for the showers. 

Neil takes his time showering, letting the hot spray ease some of the tension from his aching muscles, letting himself feel miserable for a little longer before he has to go to his empty apartment and eat some bland nutritionist-developed dinner and sleep his doctor-ordered nine hours. He's going to feel like shit in the morning, can already feel the bruises forming, but he doesn't regret the extra workout. He's young still. He can handle it.

When Neil finally gets out of the shower, he's startled—again, because he's let himself grow out of caution like he grew out of his old clothes and identities—to see Andrew. He holds his clothes to his chest protectively, but it's too late—Andrew has already dragged his eyes down Neil's front, taken in the scarring. One thing Neil hasn't grown out of: not wanting anyone to know anything about him. Even now that people do. 

“Hurry up,” Andrew says.

“What does it matter to you?” Neil says, turning his back to Andrew and wondering how bad an idea it is. He dries his hair with an extra towel, his neck, his back, and then tugs on the closest t-shirt from his locker. 

“I am giving you a ride.”

“How do you know I didn't drive here?”

“Because I drive past you every morning. Have you considered that tiring yourself out by running before practice and boxing afterward might be having an impact on your playing?”

“No,” Neil says. He pulls on a pair of sweats and searches for socks that aren't dirty, keenly aware that Andrew is watching him. Waiting for him. 

“You may just be the stupidest person I have ever met,” Andrew says.

“That's saying something considering you meet so many exy players.”

“None as obsessed as you.”

“Not even Kevin Day?”

“That's different.”

“Why?”

“Because he is good.” 

Neil whirls around. He isn't sure if he wants to punch Andrew again or just storm off, but Andrew is much closer than Neil thought, and both choices evaporate. Andrew's hair is still wet, his cheeks flushed from the shower, the cut on his face from last week ugly and dark and offset by the yellow-blue of the bruise around it.

“Are you hungry?” Andrew says. 

“I have dinner at my apartment.”

“You shouldn't just drink soylent and protein shakes.”

“Are you asking me to get dinner with you, or are you just criticizing me for following the same plan that everyone on this team is supposed to follow?”

“Everyone on this team isn't miserable,” Andrew says, which isn't an answer, and slams Neil's locker shut. 

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes,” Andrew says. “Don't look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Neil says.

“Like—” Andrew waves a hand at Neil like it means anything, and Neil finds himself smiling.

“Okay,” he says. “Dinner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! please leave a comment if you enjoyed or spotted a typo.
> 
> i'm on tumblr [here](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: andreil and “idk you but you were getting hit on in public and you look super uncomfortable so i walked over and pretended to be your bf/gf, but hey while we’re at it, do you wanna go get some food?” if you feel like it! i love your writing, have a good day and take care <3

Four months into the season, and Neil has finally seen some game time. He's even scored a few goals, cementing his spot on the bench at least. 

It shouldn't be comforting to see his name on the list of subs before every game. It is anyway.

They're celebrating the end of a good series—a fifth game home win against New York—in a local bar, and there's a stranger talking to Neil.

“You were really good tonight,” he says. He's wearing a hat with their team's logo on it and he has an empty pitcher of Sam Adams next to his elbow. There is a straw in the pitcher, and every so often he clamps down on it, sucking at dregs. “You should be starting. Tell Coach Albert I said that.”

“I will,” Neil says. “I'll tell him a stranger at a sports bar says he should start me.”

“You ever score on Minyard?” the guy says. He waves down a server for a refill of his pitcher.

“Sir, those are for tables.”

“I'm at a table,” the guy says. He gestures to Neil, then back at himself. “We're drinking together.”

The waiter eyes Neil's glass—soda water with ice and a wedge of lime, nothing disguised as an actual drink—and says, “Sure.”

“I've never scored on Minyard,” Neil says, catching Andrew's eye from across the bar. Andrew casts an amused look at the drunk, then turns back to the person talking to him.

“So,” the guy says. He leans forward, pats the side of Neil's arm. “I like to think my gaydar's pretty powerful.”

His accent is gratingly Boston. Min-yuhd. Gay-dah. “What does that mean?”

“You know,” the guy says. “Sometimes you got two guys in a gay bar, everyone knows they're straight, no one says a word to 'em. Sometimes you got two guys in a bar, they're the only ones who can tell how gay they are, they say a lot of words to each other.”

Neil blinks. “I'm not gay.”

“I mean, sure, you can't say anything, that's fine, I'll sign the NDA.” The guy grins, curling his hand around Neil's bicep. “You're hot, though. People must tell you that all the time. You probably have fangirls with posters. Like Tyler Seguin. You remember that goal in the playoffs in '11? Against Tampa? You think it was worth it to trade him to Dallas?”

“I don't have fangirls,” Neil says, making a face. Is he hot? He can't tell. He doesn't know how you're supposed to know. He also doesn't know who Tyler Seguin is or what this guy is talking about. He casts around for Andrew again, but he can't find him in the crowded bar.

“Not a hockey fan?”

“Not really.”

“That's alright,” the guy says. “Lots of athletes only know their sport. You ever see Big Papi try to play tennis?”

Neil swirls his drink with his straw. He doesn't know what Big Papi is, or anything about tennis.

“Come on, who's gonna know?” the guy says, apparently abandoning the sports talk portion of his shitty flirting. “I sign the NDA, I look straight as shit—look at me, I'm wearing a baseball hat.”

“It's an exy hat.”

“Yeah, it's for an exy team, but it's a baseball hat. You guys don't wear these when you're playing.”

Neil doesn't know what the guy is talking about. He takes a sip of his soda water. 

“What, are you saying you'd be down if I was wearing a fucking helmet?” the guy says. “Come on, kid.” He squeezes Neil's arm. “Let's get out of here. I know you're bored as shit.”

Neil wrenches his arm out of the guy's grip. “Not interested.”

“Why not?”

“He doesn't need a reason.”

Neil blinks; he doesn't know how Andrew keeps sneaking up on him, but he does. Andrew slots in next to Neil, right next to the arm the guy was squeezing a second ago. 

The guy blinks. “Holy shit, Andrew Minyard.”

“Holy shit,” Andrew says. “Andrew Minyard.” 

He snakes an arm around Neil's waist, something approximating the thousand hugs Neil exchanges with his teammates every day after good practices or good games except that there aren't several inches of padding between them. Still, Andrew's arm is loose enough that Neil could break free if he needed or wanted to with relative ease. Having fought Andrew more than once, Neil knows that's deliberate.

Neil tilts his head at the drunk guy. 

The drunk guy squints at them.

“No way,” he says. “You two?”

“Us two,” Andrew.

“What are you, a fucking parrot?”

“Leave us alone,” Neil says, taking a chance and stepping closer to Andrew. Andrew's arm tightens.

“Told you my gaydar was pretty powerful,” the guy says, grinning at them and sticking his straw in the new pitcher a waiter sets in front of him. “Knew it from when I saw you score against Washington. Something about the way you spin your racquet.”

Neil has no idea what that means. 

“He told you to leave us alone,” Andrew says. “Or we can get security to do it for you.”

The guy lifts his hands in mock innocence. “Alright, alright. I get it.” He takes his pitcher with him when he leaves, and Andrew takes his arm back.

“Thanks,” Neil says. After all these years, he's still completely clueless when it comes to dealing with drunk people. “Who is Tyler Seguin?”

“How should I know?” Andrew steals some of Neil's drink and makes a face. “This isn't alcohol.”

“I don't drink, and neither should you. Beer is bad for you.”

“I don't drink beer,” Andrew says. “Whiskey is not bad for you.”

“I've seen you eat,” Neil says. “You wouldn't care anyway.”

Andrew raises an eyebrow. “Get a drink with me.”

“Isn't that what we're already doing?”

Andrew ignores him, starting for the bar, and Neil follows him out of habit. Andrew orders two whiskeys and hands one to Neil.

Neil looks around.

“One drink is not going to loosen your tongue,” Andrew says. “Don't worry, runaway.”

“I'm not worried about that,” Neil says. “How did you know I was a runaway?”

“You are not the only person with access to Google.”

Neil rolls his eyes, but he accepts the whiskey. It's mostly out of habit that he doesn't drink these days—his worst secrets have been public knowledge for years, and he can defend himself pretty well even hindered by injury, so alcohol shouldn't be much worse. 

Andrew watches while Neil takes a sip, releasing a huff of air that might be a laugh when Neil makes a face at the taste. 

“You never drank in college,” Andrew says. “Not once?”

“I've had whiskey before,” Neil says. “But not for getting drunk. More as anesthetic.”

Andrew stares at him.

“Hey,” Neil says, knocking his glass against Andrew's. “You said you Googled me.”

“You are a Shakespearean tragedy, Neil Josten.”

“So are you,” Neil says, grinning at him. “Hey.”

“You can stop saying hey. I am right here.”

“We won tonight.” 

“I'm aware.”

“I scored. You kept a shut-out. It was a good game.”

“Are you going to give me a play-by-play?” Andrew says.

“If you want me to.”

“Are you capable of talking about anything else?”

“Sure,” Neil says. “You got real possessive, real quick, Minyard.”

Andrew just stares at him. Neil almost laughs.

“Thanks, though. I didn't know how to get away from him without hitting him.”

“Yes, I have noticed you like to solve your problems in that way.”

“And you don't?” Neil asks, taking a chance and knocking a finger against the inside of Andrew's forearm where, he knows, there are knives hidden. 

“I prefer being smarter about it.”

“You mean threatening people with security.”

“We just won a series against New York,” Andrew says. “We are local heroes.”

“No need to fight your own battles if someone else'll do it for you.”

“A lesson I learned the hard way.”

“Meaning?”

“You said you Googled me,” Andrew says, hitting Neil's glass with his own, and this time Neil does laugh. Andrew stares at him; Neil grins back. 

“What?” Neil says.

“Careful,” Andrew says. “I'll have security escort you out, too.”

“I thought we were local heroes.”

“I am a local hero. You are a rookie who scored two goals.”

“Call them, then.”

Andrew flags down the bartender for a refill. He does not call security.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember claw marks? hahahahahaha :( 
> 
> please leave a comment if you enjoyed or spot a typo!
> 
> i'm on tumblr [here](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com) (and taking prompts!)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompts:
> 
> “i was out in public and had an anxiety attack and you left your friends to give me some chocolate and talk me through it, so tysm” au with andreil? please and thanks
> 
> hey, soo if you still want prompts i have one that's not from the list but i'd die to read it: We met on the fireescape outside the appartment for smokes au with andreil (but ofc if you don't like it you don't have to write it )

They make it to playoffs by the skin of their teeth, and the captain, Isabel, throws a giant party in her apartment. Everyone gets very drunk, very quickly except for Neil, who is trying to get real exy talk out of Isabel. 

“I think putting me on halfway through the first half during playoffs would be the way to go,” Neil says. “Then I could start the second half and come off when Goodson's rested enough. He doesn't have my stamina, so it makes sense to have him at separate ends like that, right?”

“I have two things to say to you,” Isabel says. “First, I prefer you coming on toward the ends of halves because you're fast and the other team is always too tired to catch you. Second, we are at a fucking party. Get a drink and _act like it_.”

“But—”

“Talk about it with Coach when we're back in practice,” Isabel says, and Neil scours the room for their coach. He's not there. “Listen, I invited a bunch of my friends. Why don't you go find one?”

“Are they exy players?”

“It doesn't matter,” Isabel says. “I'm trying to get you laid.”

“You're trying to what?” Neil says, looking for Andrew, whom he knows will humor his exy talk. But Andrew disappeared fifteen minutes ago, and Neil still can't find him.

“Here, come on,” Isabel says, leading him by the wrist to a pack of strangers who immediately envelop her in hugs. “This is Neil Josten, rookie striker. Had a great regular season but won't shut up about the playoffs. One of you, distract him, please.” 

Her friends are friendly. They don't know as much about exy as a pro exy player would, but Neil should've expected that a professional athlete doesn't actually know that many people outside of the sport. Half of them seem to be from her college team, and the rest played at other local colleges. 

“Yeah, I think I recognize you,” Neil says. “You checked me pretty badly when we played BC. You don't play anymore?”

The backliner in question laughs. “Nah. I'm a financial analyst. Doesn't pay as good, but at least I'm not risking breaking any bones at work, right?”

“Right,” says Neil, who doesn't get it. 

One of the other friends laughs at Neil's expression. “Don't mind him. He never gave a shit about exy, he just liked that it paid for his college.”

“I don't get it,” Neil says.

“Well, that's why you get the big bucks and I coach high school,” the same friend says. “By the way, this might be totally rude, but would it be possible to have you and a couple of your teammates come in and present to the team? I feel like they'd love hearing from you.”

“Why don't you ask Isabel?”

“She has this like, long thing about not wanting to make you guys feel obligated to do it because she's the captain or whatever, but if you're down and she's down—”

There's movement behind the friend. It's Andrew, returning from the bathroom with his phone clenched in his hand. He takes slow, deliberate steps to the kitchen.

It's only been a few months, but Neil knows Andrew well enough now to be able to tell the difference between an Andrew who is just being typically quiet and an Andrew who is on the cusp of hitting something. This is most definitely the latter.

“Yeah, definitely,” Neil says. “Excuse me.”

He pushes past them, not stopping to wonder how much Isabel will care that he was rude to her friends, and follows Andrew into the kitchen.

Except he isn't in the kitchen. He's outside it, standing on the fire escape and staring down.

Neil grabs two beers from the table and then one of the brownies Isabel hasn't set out yet for good measure, then pushes the window open and climbs out after him. It turns out Andrew is looking at his hands, which are shaking. 

He doesn't acknowledge Neil for a few long minutes, but finally he accepts the beer and leans against the railing, looking down.

“It's not whiskey,” Neil says by way of apology. “I don't think she has any, actually. Just beer and vodka.”

Another long moment. Andrew's hands are still shaking, and the one that isn't holding his beer is holding his cell phone like it's a grenade that's about to go off.

“Was it that cop again?” Neil says.

Instead of answering, Andrew draws his arm back and then overhand throws his phone. It sails a long arc through the light-polluted sky and then disappears into the darkness in front of them. Not long after, a crash, the sound of something breaking.

“Hope that wasn't a window,” Neil says. “Hey, you could be a pitcher. If exy doesn't work out.”

“You hate baseball.”

“So? You hate exy, but you can still talk about it.”

“I don't care enough about exy to hate it.” 

Andrew looks behind them into the kitchen and then tugs a pack of Marlboro Reds out of his pocket. He lights one and then offers the cigarettes and lighter to Neil, who accepts.

“I didn't know you smoked,” Neil says.

“I quit,” Andrew says.

“This doesn't look like quitting.”

“What does it look like?”

Neil knows. He's been to too many psych evals not to. “Anger, frustration, maybe some memories associated with the phone call you just took. Shutting down, trying to isolate yourself. I bet if I checked your pulse right now it'd be racing. So—PTSD, maybe.”

“PTSD, maybe,” Andrew echoes. “Is that your diagnosis, Doc?”

“Yeah.”

Andrew presses his fingers to the side of his neck, and then he says, “Check.”

“What?”

“My pulse.”

Neil sets his beer down to do it. Andrew's skin is abnormally warm for someone standing outside on such a cold night, and Neil was right—Andrew's pulse is going much faster than it should be.

“If you're trying to disprove me, you're not doing a very good job.”

“I'm not,” Andrew says.

Neil holds out the brownie like it'll do anything for—whatever this is. A panic attack disguised as a temper tantrum. “Playoffs don't start for a few weeks.”

“Not relevant,” Andrew says, accepting it.

Neil takes a swig of his beer. “Relevant for me.”

“Junkie.”

“Yeah, little bit.” 

“How do you know what PTSD looks like?”

“You know how,” Neil says. “You've seen the scars.”

“The scars aren't much of a story on their own.”

“The Google search results must've helped.”

“Wikipedia is famously inaccurate.”

“Fair enough,” Neil says, taking a drag of his cigarette. “My dad was the Butcher of Baltimore. Basically just headed the mob. Really liked knives, famous for using a cleaver. I tended to piss him off a lot. And—you know I'm a runaway. Some of them are just consequences of living on the run.”

“You were a runaway,” Andrew says. He's closer than Neil thought he was, now that he's turned toward him, looking up at him. “Aren't anymore.”

“How would you know?” Neil says.

“No one who looks like you could hide for very long. Especially not now that you're famous.”

“Exy isn't that popular.”

“No, but you are.”

It's true—thanks to all the drama with his father and the mob when he was in college, Neil is pretty frequently discussed for a mediocre sub striker. His PR firm-controlled Twitter has a lot more followers than Andrew's. 

It's another way his father has forced him to stay put, Neil supposes. He drops his cigarette, watches it flutter away into the darkness, clenches and unclenches his fist.

“It's not a bad thing,” Andrew says.

“What?”

“Staying in one place.”

Andrew is a foster child, Neil remembers. They aren't that different, really, when it comes down to it.

“I know,” Neil says. “I like it here.”

“What do you like about it?”

“The court,” Neil says. “I like that it's a big city, but not so big that you can really get lost in it. I like the people. The team. I like you.”

Andrew leans in. “Can I kiss you?”

It's like the circuit breakers in Neil's brain all simultaneously trip. He fumbles for a second, trying to figure out how to control his mouth again, and then he says, “I—you can—no.”

Andrew steps back. “Okay,” he says, easy as anything. He lights another cigarette.

“I only meant—not right now. You're drunk and not super in your right mind.”

“Not super in my right mind,” Andrew says.

“You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

“Yes,” Neil says. “I don't think I should kiss you when you're like this.”

“When am I not like this?”

“Most of the time.”

“So most of the time …”

“Most of the time,” Neil says, choosing his words carefully and shifting so that he's closer to Andrew, their shoulders bumping, “it'd be yes.”

Andrew doesn't say anything, but he doesn't move away, either. Neil swipes the pack of cigarettes and lights another, watches the ember glow. They're too far into the city for it to be truly dark even this late, but he thinks it's a nice effect anyway.

“I told you mine,” Neil says. “What's yours?”

“What?”

“The story of my scars.” He's seen Andrew's—once, an accident, his wristbands peeling off with his boxing gloves; Andrew covered them back up immediately. “Yours isn't on Google.”

“It is,” Andrew says. “You're just not asking the right questions.”

“Why did Andrew Minyard try to die?” Neil guesses.

“Why did Andrew Minyard do all he could to stay alive?” Andrew says. He gestures at Neil's chest. “That's evidence that you survived. Mine are evidence that I did.”

“Then why do you cover them up?”

“Why do you cover yours?”

“Good point.” Neil almost smiles. He raises his bottle. “To surviving.”

Andrew clinks his bottle against Neil's. 

“To surviving,” Andrew says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave a comment if you enjoyed or spotted a typo!
> 
> come talk to me on tumblr [here](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com)


End file.
